


Not If, When

by spicedrobot



Series: Ko-fi Strawpoll Compilation [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Bottom Genji Shimada, Concept Art Zenyatta, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Finger Sucking, Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Top Tekhartha Zenyatta, Trans Genji Shimada, no vagina mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 00:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15984014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Overwatch transfers Zenyatta's consciousness into his old chassis.





	Not If, When

****Genji ignored Zenyatta at first. He was blind then, lost. It burned him through to hear pity in lilting, synthetic tones from a body made of alloys and electricity, a body that was now closer to his own than a human’s. How could one who has never been flesh and blood speak so loftily of salvation? Of forgiveness?

The omnic’s persistence eased the hatred that protected him, and disdain became begrudging interest. Genji studied the omnic’s mannerisms and circuitry, curious of code and metal that could produce warmth in a voice, the unbridled joy in his laugh. Then, when love replaced anger, Genji feared for the delicacy of that cherished form, each distracting piece of Zenyatta that colored his thoughts. The scratches on Zenyatta’s faceplate, beauty marks peppering the gold chrome of his jaw, the tender red wires Genji’d bitten to the sound of Zenyatta’s modulated gasps. His smooth, round chestplate, cool on first touch, warming as he dragged his hands to his sharply narrowing middle. Long, intricate legs that Genji’s parted again and again, slim ankles that he’d used to tug his master close.

Seeing that same body, lifeless and barely recognizable, settles like a stone in his stomach.

Genji wasn’t there when it happened, and if his master’s voice, rough but familiar, didn’t draw his attention mere seconds later, he would’ve lost himself.

“Genji, do not worry. I am here.”

Instead, Genji turns toward an omnic, recognizable at first only for the voice it emits.

He has to look up to see his face. The omnic is muscled and thick, bright saffron paint coloring most of his armored chassis. Though there is no gentle face, his array blinks one light at a time, curious. Multiple arms emerge from his back like wings, alien, god-like, if not for the familiar serenity Genji would recognize anywhere.

What should be a question is left without doubt.

“Master.”

Zenyatta tilts his head kindly, no, _mirthfully_ at Genji, the omnic as he’s never seen him. As large as his personality, as his presence in Genji’s life. Armored and powerful, not a single exposed wire in sight. How many layers would Genji have to peel away to discover sensors he could tease with his mouth—

“I know it is...shocking to see me in my old form. Miss Lindholm has assured me she will be able to repair my current chassis.”

Only then does Genji notice the person next to Zenyatta. Brigitte smirks at him.

“Leave it to me.”

He’s thankful that his helmet conceals his mouth. At the very least Brigitte would not see how he sucks at his lower lip.

“How long will the repairs take?” Genji manages to ask.

“Hm...the damage was extensive. I’ll have to order parts. Two weeks, at least.“

“We should not let this set back our training,” says Zenyatta as he begins to move towards Genji. “We will still meet for our morning sessions?”

Genji swallows.

“Of course.”

* * *

Genji shouldn’t be flustered; there’s no reason for it. After everything they had shared, why would this be any different?

He sits next to Zenyatta during lunch, watching him talk animatedly with Mei about his body’s repairs and inner functions. Listening, not staring. He takes in his master’s new, reinforced neck, thicker than his hands could wrap around. His arms too, bulkier than his own. His eyes follow the bar that curls around Zenyatta’s head. Could he still open his mouth, use it to drag Zenyatta’s face onto his—

Genji frowns before filling his mouth with food, never lifting his eyes from his meal.

* * *

If only it were that easy.

He spends most of their meditation session studying Zenyatta, so large now that he casts Genji in shadow. It’s almost like old times, how he would fidget and stare until Zenyatta would inquire.

“Is there something on your mind, Genji?”

Too much like old times. He takes a deep breath, blushing beneath his helmet.

“No doubt it concerns my current form.”

Genji forces himself to exhale.  

“Yes,” Genji says. “Are you ok?”

“You need not worry. It is...awkward, but painless.”

Zenyatta shifts, and all his arms move in mesmerizing synchronicity. A thread of heat snakes through Genji’s guts.

“I was a laborer at my inception.”

Those hands descending on him in a rush, grappling, forcing him down, not with the warm, ghostly touch of the Iris, but with hard, tangible metal—

He realizes with a wince that Zenyatta has finished speaking.

“Ah. That would explain...the arms.” He gestures a bit too animatedly.

Zenyatta hums. At least his orbs are the same, circling his master’s head in a quick little twirl.

“Yes. I was quite buff then.” And it’s said with such cheek, an almost sing-song tone. It catches Genji’s response in his throat. “Though outward appearances are simply that, one finds comfort in them.” A beat. “Does it disturb you? ”

The comforting, annoying compulsion that makes him want to tell Zenyatta everything coils in his chest. It would be best to speak his mind now, before Zenyatta suspects something worse—

“Sorry to interrupt,” Lúcio says from the doorway of their makeshift meditation room. “Zen, Brigitte needs you in the medbay. Got another test she wants to run.”

“Of course.” Zenyatta nods. “Apologies, my student. Let us continue this tomorrow.”

Zenyatta stands, _stands_ , and Genji dares not look up at him to witness how he envelops the room with his sheer presence. A hand settles on his shoulder, the three others behind it mimicking the gesture, before his master turns away.

* * *

It’s a miracle he makes it back to his room, the warmth of Zenyatta’s touch lingering like a ghost. Genji depresses his armor, his modesty panel sliding away with a quiet hiss. The first contact startles him, and he widens his stance, flattening against his bedroom door. It doesn’t take more than a few teasing slides until he’s gritting his teeth, eyes shut tight, struggling to imagine several hands on him, gentle, firm, controlling ones. Pinching his chest, cupping his hips, teasing along his ass, opening him up, claiming him, over and over.

Genji curls forward. Those hands squeezing tight, pinning him in place as he finds the swollen openness between his master’s thighs, greedy for his touch. Zenyatta forcing his body faster, setting pace, not letting Genji go until he’s had his fill. Chastising, no, praising him, in that low, familiar voice.

His knees snap together with a dull, metallic _thunk_ , hand smashed between aching thighs, working himself furiously. He scrabbles at his throat, squeezing with just enough pressure to harshen his already furious breathing. Zenyatta would never hurt him. Just enough. Enough.

The ache crystalizes, throbbing wildly beneath his fingers, vents spewing steam that condenses on chrome. A shiver settles into his bones and metal, aftershocks weakening his legs, almost toppling over if not for the insistence he still touches himself, too soon, unable to stop teasing his spent body.

After all, Zenyatta wouldn’t let him go so easily.

* * *

It was never a matter of being caught. It was when.

Sneaking around, missing meditation and sparring. A time or two hidden in not so private places and working away the haze and heat with his own fingers. He counts down the days of Zenyatta’s repair, praying for its arrival, lamenting its inevitability.

An arm crosses into his vision, blocking the doorway Genji was very nearly through.

“You have been acting strangely, Genji.”

If Zenyatta was human, his words would’ve warmed the skin beneath his ear. Genji shivers all the same.

“I did not want to press you.” Zenyatta towers over him, locks Genji in place without a single touch. He leans down for his next words, whispered into Genji’s covered ear. “Unless that was your intention.”

Two hands settle on Genji’s shoulder, and the world sharpens, ringing in his ears, warmth threading through his core.

“To be pressed.” He hears Zenyatta’s smile, but there’s no time for anger or mortification.

Genji _gasps_ instead, strangled and shocked, as Zenyatta descends upon him, tugging him back into the room he had nearly vacated, the door closed with a quiet click by one of his extra hands.

He crawls into Zenyatta’s lap faster than Zenyatta can drag him in, helmet falling away with a clatter. He peppers kisses along his master’s faceplate, mapping his descent to his neck.

“And here I thought you had no love for this form.”

Genji laughs, muffled into a strut at his collarbone, mouthing the rounded node where there may be—his master answers, a gentle huff, half-pleased, half-pressed.

“If only you knew.” He stares into Zenyatta’s array, then burrows into the black column of his throat, mouthing at the soft, giving material he finds.

In an instant, several arms lock around his back, clutching him to his chestplate; the machinery beneath thrums with energy.

“Your form does not matter,” Genji breathes.

“Though you _do_ find it pleasing.”

Fingers trail down Genji’s scarred cheek, drawing over his lower lip, holding his mouth gently askew. His student’s tongue darts out, sealing around the tips of two fingers. They come away slick and warm.

“A _love_ of you,” he says into Zenyatta’s hand, dipping forward to capture the fingers again, sucking when his tongue finds their second joints.

He grips his master’s shoulders, a fire in him now, fantasy bleeding into the present, Zenyatta’s hands slipping between his legs, another cupping the back of his neck, keeping Genji’s gaze on him. His panel releases in a furious rush, and how he buckles when Zenyatta traces a single, smooth finger along him, aching and swollen.

“Genji.” A harsh, breathless sound. “How long?”

“Forever. Always.”

Genji’s hand slithers down his body, mapping the newness of it, the thick, armored curves. Just as he imagined. Better. He grabs eagerly just beneath his hip struts, palming Zenyatta through his skirts.

No familiar divot, no release, just warm metal.

“I—” Genji says, perplexed.

He worries his lip, but Zenyatta strokes between Genji’s legs, hot, quick drags that rip away thought.

“This model does not possess what you seek.”

Zenyatta draws one hand up for inspection, slick from Genji’s desire, while another takes its place. His master tilts his head, then brings his damp fingertips to his mouth-slit, tasting. Genji rocks into him with a groan. He knew it, he _knew_ —hands grasp Genji’s hips, and Zenyatta hikes his robed skirts up, settling Genji over the huge, smooth expanse of metal thigh. His student ruts forward, the drag eased by his own mess, a needy noise not far behind.

“...wanna fuck you,” he whines sloppily, dark and slow.

A quiet, pleased huff follows from his master, who rocks his thigh to meet each frenzied jerk of Genji’s hips. Distracted by his own need, Genji doesn’t notice the last of Zenyatta’s hands twisting into a gap at his neck, petting something that has his lights flickering and his fans ticking up.

“Ah, it really is the same chassis.”

Genji tugs at Zenyatta’s wrist, and his master surrenders, letting his hand be pushed aside while Genji replaces it with his own.

He swirls his finger, feeling around for the texture of a sensor, watching Zenyatta’s expression as he rocks his body. The metal beneath him is blood warm from his motions, embarrassingly slippery, distracting him enough that he meanly pushes and prods until Zenyatta’s array blooms white hot and he emits a stuttery little groan.

“There?”

“Y-yes,” Zenyatta’s voice wavers, and Genji’s own, shaky grin steals over his features.

Fingers drag over Genji’s lips, and he opens up without hesitating, the taste of tangy sweetness sliding over his tongue. Tasting himself. He shudders, and Zenyatta presses his fingers deeper, fucking Genji’s mouth with them, a hand at his throat, inhibiting his breathing just a bit more. The hand retreats from his mouth with a quiet pop, replaced by another, then there’s two at his lower back, sliding lower, spreading, holding him open.

Shockingly warm fingertips slip between his cheeks, teasing his ass, and Genji strains into it, stilling his hips, the sweet, debilitating throb twisting through him. He wants to move, needs to find his end dragging hot and desperate against anything Zenyatta would give him. Zenyatta’s fingers circle and tease, and Genji slurs around the ones in his mouth, the grip on his hips tightening, pinning him. His heart’s never beaten harder, pulse slamming in his ears. His only defense is pawing the sensor buried along Zenyatta’s neck, but he’s drunk, lost on the building pressure at his ass, focus destroyed.

“Relax. Take a deep breath,” Zenyatta says, knowing full well Genji can’t do either.

There’s little drag, not after the first push, more that spit and slick easing the way, but Genji doesn’t have the brainpower to think about that now, not when Zenyatta starts fucking him, adding a second finger, urging Genji to the final knuckles. It’s a slow, full slide, way too damn slow, but he can do little more than shiver in Zenyatta’s grip. Tears sting his eyes, but there’s no shame, not with Zenyatta’s gentle words teasing at the edge of his consciousness. He’s good, too good at this, slowing when Genji nears his peak, led by Genji’s sobs and pleas, all muffled on his fingers that lovingly stroke his tongue, keep him mindless.

“Will you come for me? Just like this?” His fingers quicken, harsh, long strokes that force a gasp from him with each thrust. “I can do this in my current chassis as well. Keep you as helpless as I wish…”

Genji whimpers, high and hard, quaking.

“Control you entirely.”

The pressure at his throat grows, and Zenyatta’s fingers curl inside him, his hands holding him utterly still. The fingers pump into him in time, and Genji clenches around them, seizing, teeth scraping metal as his vision blackens.

“Would you like that? To be at my mercy?”

Pleasure rips from his body, the high of it forcing free more tears, like each part of his body is shattering at once. Zenyatta cradles him, array locked on his face, recording each gasp and tear while he fills him to the brink. It’s hard to judge how long it lasts, trapped, on edge, even after he’s surely come, Zenyatta’s thigh still catching against him, the fingers leisuring moving in and out of his body, playing him as easily as an instrument.

His cheek is pressed against Zenyatta’s chestplate. The hand around his throat now cards through his hair, easing him gently back to the present.

The silence draws long but comfortable as Zenyatta slowly curls each arm around Genji, cradling him. Zenyatta feels several degrees warmer than when they started. Not completely unaffected, even without the proper upgrades. It’s enough to ease a tired smile to his face.

“Perhaps we should go longer between sexual activities if it always creates such intensity.”

Genji smacks his shoulder lovingly.

“Let’s see how you like it then,” he says, mischief shining in his eyes. “Hands behind your back. I’ll have your completely powered down by night’s end.”

“Such talk.” Though Zenyatta crosses all his arms behind him, tilting his head to one side. “Let us see if you can make good on it.”


End file.
